


Leave Me To Dream

by fanoftheprofoundbond



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Angst, Dreams, Drinking, Drugs, Hallucinations, M/M, Mental Illness, Peterick
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-05 07:09:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5365988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanoftheprofoundbond/pseuds/fanoftheprofoundbond
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick's life has been pretty low ever since Fall Out Boy split up. When he reunites with Pete, now famous, rich, with his own record label, and wanting to take Patrick home with him - it seems too good to be true. It all seems pretty real, though. But don't dreams feel very real sometimes?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One More Shot, Then I'm Quitting Forever

**Author's Note:**

  * For [druscilla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/druscilla/gifts).



> “I can’t stop drinking,” he admitted. it was the first time he had ever admitted that there was a problem, even to himself. but then Pete had a way about him that made Patrick want to confess his deepest, darkest sins, so long as Pete would forgive him and patch him up again.

_Step 1. Drink_  
Step 2. Make mistakes.  
Step 3. Pretend you don’t remember.  
Step 4. Drink a little more.  
Step 5. I need to run dry. 

It was an endless cycle. _I really do,_ Patrick thought as he gazed up at the ceiling, the migraine pounding in his head, ears, and vision. _I need to run dry this time._

The ceiling looked funny. Patrick wondered if it would look better if he sat up.

Bad idea. His head got so bad he felt as if it were going to explode. Patrick let himself fall back to the bed with a groan.

So much for starting a new career without Andy and Joe and… Pete. So much for the health diets when everyone was looking and the purging when no one was watching. So much for the fake smiles and new hair and making a fool of himself on a little stage in front of the very few fans he had left.

So much for the drinking until he couldn’t even remember what he had done the day before, no matter how long he tried. So much for his manager phoning him and knocking down his door for worry about him (or, rather, the money he would make her). So much for the empty promises that this was going to stop, just let him have some time for remission. But relapse started up again before remission could even have a chance.

He missed them. He missed the fans and the boys who supported him no matter what.

But, most of all, he missed Pete.

Maybe he was a bit of a sap. Maybe a bit of a piner. But that didn’t change the way he remembered his Pete - brown eyes shining, goofy grins turning into shy smiles when he looked at Patrick. The times when Pete leaned his head against Patrick as he sang. Patrick always complained bitterly, but his mouth ran dry when Pete leaned in so close that...

“Stop it, Stump,” Patrick croaked at the ceiling. He had just discovered a particularly disgusting piece of fungus on the far right corner of that dingy motel room in the city where he was due to play three days from now.

_Pete lying on the stage, his hips up, knees pointing to the ceiling, legs spread out in a way that made Patrick want to do things that made his cheeks burn._

Think of something that isn’t gonna make you blush, Stump.

_Pete’s face pale as he lay slumped against the steering wheel, his breath coming out ragged, a box of pills laying empty beside him on the passenger seat. Patrick sharing him, but his best friend not responding..._

Patrick promptly turned over on his side and threw up.

He lay there for a long time, heaving and moaning. He really needed to stop this.

_One more shot, then I’m quitting forever. Cross my heart, cross my fingers._

Patrick thought a change of scene might make him feel better. Unfortunately, the bar was the first thing that caught his eye.

“Hey, isn’t that the guy who that song about the city?” was enough to send him on a frenzied high, that someone actually knew of him. One or two songs was enough for him to not even notice how many shots he had had. He hadn’t meant to have even a single one, he had promised himself that he wouldn’t. But the ecstasy convinced him that one wouldn’t hurt and the applause egged him on.

He was prepared to keep singing, but the owner informed him that they had someone else in line to sing next.

“Not finished yet,” Patrick slurred. “One more."

“No more,” the owner said firmly. “You’ve sung one too many and drunk however many more than that."

“You can’t stop me,” Patrick said hotly. He struggled forward, then found he was being pinned behind by two strong men.

He started thrashing. “Let me go,” he pleaded. “I just wanna go home. I just wanna sing."

“I’ll take care of this, fellas,” a new voice suddenly broke in. “I’ll take my friend home."

Patrick had always hated hyperbolic features of speech. However, when he saw Pete standing there, different hair, cut short, several years older, but same old beautiful smile - Patrick thought he was going to die, he really did.

“P-Pete?” he managed to gasp out. Or maybe he said something else that his mind was thinking. Something like _throw me against the wall._ He wasn’t really sure.

“Hey, Patrick,” Pete said gently. He still had that same way of saying his name that made Patrick so glad that his parents hadn’t name him David after his dad.

“He’s with you?” the owner asked in a very suspicious tone.

Pete nodded.

“Yeah, he is. And he’s coming with me. Right, Patrick?"

He looked at Patrick hard, sternness in his mouth. Patrick was starting to feel afraid in only the way too much alcohol could make him feel, but when he searched Pete’s eyes, he saw the corners crinkling up in the same old way it did when Pete was amused.

“Yeah, we’re going,” Patrick agreed. “Thanks for everything!” he called over his shoulder as Pete ushered him out, an arm around his back in a way that was making the blonde man feel butterflies in his stomach and a tightening in his chest in addition to the nausea.

Patrick’s head was reeling by the time they had fully exited the bar, ending up in the alley behind rather than the slightly more civilized way Patrick had come in. He wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol or Pete… maybe both. All he knew was that he was leaning way too much on Pete and he smelled nice and _oh god had he just said that out loud?_

Pete laughed. “Fashionable guy cologne. I’ve had some changes since we last saw each other."

Patrick suddenly realized that Pete was wearing a suit. He looked like a businessman on his way home from work. The suit suit him like a glove, showing off his body very nicely. He had cut his hair to a neat, close-to-his-head style, very different from old emo Pete. Patrick, with a start, realized that Pete had finally grown into his body. The awkward boy had become a man.

“And look at you, Patrick,” Pete smiled, as if he were reading Patrick’s thoughts ( _which he probably was, the bastard_ ). “You’re wearing suits with suspenders, no hats, and you’re blonde. I saw the photos with the horns. You were one sexy devil."

“You - you’ve been following my career?” Patrick stammered. His mind was reeling around the ‘sexy’ bit, spinning on and off, but he was still sober enough not to mention it.

Oh, yeah. Not like he really had a career.

“Of course. I wasn’t going to let my best friend get away from me, was I?”

Pete slapped him on the back and Patrick winced.

“Sorry,” Pete apologized. “But, yeah - I have your albums. They’re really good."

Patrick threw up again. He just had the time to stumble forward to the corner of the building, leaning against it with one hand. His thoughts were still reeling. He realized that he had no idea what Pete had been doing since the secret fight that no one outside the band knew of before they had split up. Worst breakup ever. Pete liked his music. And he could feel Pete’s hands on his shoulders, massaging ever so slightly, telling him that it was going to be alright.

“I need help,” Patrick gasped when he had finished, stumbling back and feeling his back against the firm warmth of Pete’s chest. He felt tears spring to his eyes.

“I can’t stop drinking,” he admitted. it was the first time he had ever admitted that there was a problem, even to himself. but then Pete had a way about him that made Patrick want to confess his deepest, darkest sins, so long as Pete would forgive him and patch him up again.

“I’ve got you,” Pete said softly, his warm breath against Patrick’s ear. “I’m here to help. We’ll work this out together."

Patrick sniffed and looked down. He was horrified by the sight at his feet.

“I puked on your shoes,” he told Pete miserably. “I… I didn’t mean to."

Pete chuckled, low down in his throat. “It’ll come off easy enough. Now, let’s get you home."

“I’m in a motel,” Patrick admitted, hanging his head. “I had to sell the New York apartment for food."

Pete shook his head. “I mean my house. You’re coming home with me."

“Oh,” Patrick whispered.

He probably should have shut up right then and there, but it was too late to clamp his mouth shut after he had started.

“Isn’t it a little soon, right after a first date?"

Pete laughed out loud, throwing back his head, shoulders shaking in a way that Patrick had to crack a smile.

“Oh, but, Patrick, you forget,” Pete whispered, leaning in, his lips so close to Patrick’s cheek that Patrick could have sworn he felt them brush against his skin. “We’ve been going out for ten years."


	2. Brave New World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No. Even with all the weirdness, Patrick preferred this new world with miraculous cures, old resentments forgotten, and Pete flirting with him - more than usual. Patrick flushed at the thought. Had Pete really called him "honey?" He found himself wondering if, perhaps, after all this time, Pete might finally be reciprocating his feelings. He suddenly found himself re-analyzing every line Pete had ever written, trying to figure out if he could be woven somewhere there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this chapter a long while back but never had the chance to type it up. So here you go. I'm sorry I'm so bad at updating these. (I'm also certain I'm going to find some spelling errors again next time I read over this.)

When Patrick woke up the next day, he felt more comfortable than he had in months. The ceiling had no disgusting fungus - in fact, it was spotless, immaculate.

He was in a very large bed with more pillows than Patrick could count. He was trying to remember where he was when the door opened and Pete came in wearing a mustard-yellow suit, smiling.

Last night came rushing back all in a flash and Patrick remembered the shame and the splendor of Pete's suite house when then the man had switched the lights on. He remembered something about Pete helping him into a room - most likely this room - and... _oh_. He flushed. Pete had definitely helped him change into pyjamas and new boxers because Patrick had been too far gone to do anything for himself.

"There you go," Pete grinned when he saw the look of mortification on Patrick's face.

Patrick wasn't sure if Pete was thinking what he was - he certainly hoped not - but he cleared his throat.

"So... uh, this is your place, then?"

"Yep," Pete grinned. "All mine."

Patrick raised his eyebrows. "Wow. How did you manage to pull that off?"

A flash of something almost looked like hurt crossed the man's face, but it was gone in a moment and he was smiling as if nothing had happened - in fact, Patrick wasn't sure anymore if it had.

"Oh... yeah. I kind of have my own record deal. I have a show, too. Not as big as Simon Cowell's, but it certainly brings home the bacon."

"It certainly does," Patrick said wryly.

Pete looked down at his watch, ducking his head in a shy way that stirred old memories within Patrick, but then made a sound of surprise. When he looked up again, any uncertainties had been wiped away and he was confident, smug Pete again.

"Patrick, I'd love to stay and help you get settled in, but I have a meeting in twenty minutes and my chauffeur has been waiting for five already. There's a bathroom attached and if you need help with anything, ring the bell and Francis will help you." 

Pete nodded towards a rope hanging by the side of Patrick's bed - gold, tassel, and all. He was already heading towards the door when Patrick stopped him.

"How come I don't have a headache anymore?"

Pete grinned. "Oh, that's a new pill Andy invented for his new health line. Works great, doesn't it? Got to run - see you for dinner, honey."

And then he was gone and Patrick was left wondering if the whole thing was a dream. Was he on a drug-created hallucination? Andy - a health guru? What was Joe - a rabbi? Then there was the question of Pete - Pete with a new impeccable fashion sense, businessman, boss man in the music world. Who would have thought that his Pete could amount to such heights?

With an overwhelming wave of guilt, Patrick's own words came echoing back to him - the things he had said during that awful, _horrible_ fight.

_Do you even consider what you're doing with your life?_ Patrick had yelled. _At this rate, with what you're doing - you'll never amount to anything._

Patrick felt his eyes filling with tears for the second time in the last twelve hours. Had he really said such nasty things to Pete - _his_ Pete?

No. Even with all the weirdness, Patrick preferred this new world with miraculous cures, old resentments forgotten, and Pete flirting with him - more than usual. Patrick flushed at the thought. Had Pete really called him "honey?" He found himself wondering if, perhaps, after all this time, Pete might finally be reciprocating his feelings. He suddenly found himself re-analyzing every line Pete had ever written, trying to figure out if he could be woven somewhere there.  
With that promising thought, Patrick decided that he might as well get up and shower.

The bathroom was just as fancy as his room - bath rug so thick his feet suck into it, shiny appliances, state-of-the-art shower with sixteen different spray function (Patrick spent more time playing with them than he'd care to count), and towels and bathrobe, just as white and fluffy as the ones from the five-star hotels the band had stayed at during their good days (which, unlike what most of their fans thought, wasn't very frequent).

Patrick dried off and wrapped himself in one of those robes (which was so comfortable that he thought he wouldn't wear anything else for the rest of his days - although he wouldn't mind Pete getting him out of it, he had to admit) before going back into his room.

A maid was making his bed. When she turned and saw him, the sheet fell from her fingers and a look of pure bliss came over her face.

"You're Patrick!" she squealed.

"Ye - es," Patrick said slowly, not quite sure how this was going to turn out.

"I'm _such_ a fan!" the girl said, turning away from the bed and taking a step towards him, then stopping. "Well, all of us are," she admitted. "Mr. Wentz only hires Fall Out Boy fans. Mr. Hurley and Rabbi Trohman came here sometimes, but you never did. But I knew you would!" she exclaimed smugly, wrapping her arms around her slender frame.

"Wait - Rabbi Trohman?" Patrick asked, his mind still a statement behind her.

"Oh, yes," the girl nodded. "Mr. Trohman had a turn back to his Jewish faith after the band broke up. He's now one of the most prominent rabbis in the world."

"Oh." Patrick nodded. So his sarcastic thoughts had actually turned out to be true. Funny how it was all his old jokes about members of Fall Out Boy were becoming true, the things that he thought would never happen.

"I'm Eleanor, but you can call me Ellie." Ellie paused but then spoke up again, a sly gleam in her eyes. "May I call you Patrick? Mr. Wentz says to be formal, but you're my favourite member of the band."

Patrick nodded absentmindedly. "Yeah, sure."

He couldn't help but think about his earlier theory about drug-induced dreams. But that couldn't be, right? This was much too real.

"Pinch me," he suddenly said on a whim.

"Excuse me?" Ellie asked, her nose scrunching up in a way that Patrick might have found cute if it weren't for the circumstances.

Patrick held out his arm. "Pinch me," he commanded, using the best stern voice he had. Unfortunately, his voice grated and it came out not domineering in the sense he meant, but sultry.

Ellie flushed and came over to his side.

"Okay..." she replied slowly, drawing out the word. She reached out, paused, then touched his arm. Then pinched... hard.

"Ow!" Patrick yelped, pulling away his arm. "That's very real!"

"Umm... yes?" Ellie looked confused. "Why wouldn't it be?"

With this last piece of evidence falling into place, Patrick was so overjoyed that he leaned down, picked up the girl, and swung her around in a circle. Ellie screamed with pleasure. However, as Patrick set her down and headed for the door, he was almost certain that the maid had a look of disappointment on her face.

Patrick opened the door and almost fell onto Pete.

"I... I made the meeting short because I didn't think it was fair to leave you on your own," Pete explained with a look of surprise on his face.

"It's real!" Patrick crowed and, without even considering the consequences, leaned in and kissed his best friend.


	3. Little Slut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick had always wondered if trying to pull off those skinny jeans would be a mood killer. Now he wouldn’t have to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short one. I wasn't planning to do a sex scene and make it more implied, but then some stuff happened and I wasn't doing well and I thought fuck it, I'm writing smut.

Pete made a surprised noise against Patrick’s mouth, but he wasn’t surprised for very long. It was only a few mere seconds before mouths were moving against each other, lips and tongues and teeth. One moment, Patrick felt himself pressed against the wall. The next, Pete was pushing him back into a bedroom and closing the door behind them. When he came up for breath, Patrick was almost sure he had seen Ellie staring at them, a shocked, horrified look on her face before Pete’s mouth grasped at his again and he couldn’t think of anything else.

No words were exchanged. Patrick grinded against Pete, dying for the friction, and Pete moaned low into Patrick’s mouth. Then Pete’s fingers were grappling at Patrick’s clothes and Patrick was pretty sure he was doing the same, but it was a little hard to concentrate, so he couldn’t quite tell.

Suit pants were a whole lot easier to get rid of the horrible skinny jeans Pete used to wear. Horrible in the sense of taking off, as Patrick had observed many a time when they had shared a room together on tour - beautiful in the sense that they showed off Pete’s ass quite well. Patrick had always wondered if trying to pull off those skinny jeans would be a mood killer. Now he wouldn’t have to find out.

It wasn’t very long before they fell back onto the bed together, Pete pinning him down to the mattress and looking down at him, that cheeky grin lighting up his face.

“Never thought I’d get here, Stump,” he panted.

Patrick was almost writhing from impatience by now.

“Hurry up, Wentz,” he growled impatiently, low.

Pete shivered visibly, but he obeyed immediately. He reached out, grasping Patrick’s cock, and squeezing gently, running the fingers of his other hand, stroking, before clasping with the other hand. He started to pump gently, then a little harder. Patrick couldn’t but moan.

“Fuck, Pete, you take forever."

Pete winked and kept at the same pace.

Patrick had enough.

He flipped Pete over so that now he was pinning him to the mattress. Pete looked the tiniest bit surprised, but a smile curved up the end of his lips.

“You should really learn to do as you’re told,” Patrick growled. “You’re lucky that I’m nice…. today."

He grasped his own length in one hand, Pete’s in the other, before pushing in, hard.

Pete whimpered and clutched at Patrick’s shoulders. Patrick couldn’t help but feel a little proud, to see Pete coming undone so easily. He pulled back, then back in, picking up pace as quickly as he could.

“P… Patrick,” Pete gasped. As Patrick pumped harder, using a hand in addition, Pete moaned. Then again, loudly.

“You better be quiet before the servants come looking to see what’s wrong, hmm?” Patrick asked in a stern tone, although the effect was partly worn by his own breath starting to come fast. “Am I right, slut?"

Pete squeezed his eyes shut and nodded, whimpering. He didn’t stop, either, and soon words came flowing from his own, whimpers alternated with low moans, curses and _Trick, Trick, Trick, please faster, please more_ and _ohh, Triiiiiick_ as he came.

Watching Pete came fully undone did it for Patrick and he came as well, a string of curses on his tone.

“I didn’t know you knew so much about gay sex. Isn’t it your first time?” Pete asked not-so-innocently when his breath had returned. He was clutching onto Patrick, Patrick’s legs wrapped around him as they lay tied together.

Patrick raised his head and gave him a look.

“Little slut,” he said, but his tone was affectionate.


End file.
